What do I do?
by beansprout1997
Summary: Molly gets mugged not far from her flat, and is left bleeding to death, alone in the street. Whats a poor pathologist to do? Especially when her cat seems to want her dead as well...
1. heart beat

She was bleeding. From quite a few places at that. The most notable of which was her stomach, if the large and messy drops of crimson in the London snow were anything to go by. She knew that her nose, her lip, her arms and one of her legs was bleeding as well. She had always thought that if she were going to die, it would be in some glamorous and tragic way given the company she kept(perhaps in a weeping Sherlock's arms...), she certainly never imagined she would perish at the hands of a young mugger. He had approached her in broad daylight, on the empty road that lead to her flat. The skinny pale boy could only have been 17, 18 tops. He had quietly asked for spare change, and although Molly would usually dutifully dig out some coins, she was out. Earlier that day she had bought some truly awful coffee from a cheep vending machine, so she had no choice but to mutter a small "sorry love, I've no change", nod politely and move on.

She could only have made it 5 or 6 feet before he grabbed her pony tail and viciously yanked her backwards. After that it was a blur. Punching and slapping until she couldn't stand, so quick that she couldn't fight back. She was on her knees when he spat on her, and circled her slowly. Next was a large and forceful boot to her spine, right in between her shoulder blades, and Molly registered her nose breaking on the frozen ground. She tried desperately to crawl away, really she did. But his boot came down on her many more times. At some point she had rolled over, and was staring blankly at the beautifully clear sky. The little piece of serenity she found up there was ripped away when she felt it- an intense cold just to the right of her stomach. The cold gave way to a tsunami of pain, a million needles spreading through her torso, so raw and magnified in the crisp air. She registered the boy giving her a last dig in the ribs, and the feeling of her bag being torn from her limp arm. Then there were footsteps and she was alone.

She lay there a while, no longer in pain, but aware she couldn't last in the cold and blissful numbness. It took a lot of screaming from her subconscious self, to get up. There was no way to go about the action without wrenching away the shock and numb, and boy did she feel her injuries.

It took her a few moments to fight her way to her feet, and hot tears ran down her face the whole time. Suddenly her coat felt like it weighed a million tones, and so she shed it, leaving the purple cotton pile on the street and revealing a thin. With no phone, and with no one in sight, the now deathly pale girl said quietly to herself "There's only one thing for it Hooper", and set off in an odd, shuffle walk. If anybody could see her, they would note [with some alarm] that she looked rather a lot like a zombie.

She had made it about half way to the flat, and the feeling of pain was melting away, but fate was in no mood to make it easy on the young pathologist.

An orange blur planted itself under Molly's already unsteady foot, and sent her crashing to the unforgiving ground once more, and at that point Molly knew it was over. She couldn't get up again. The orange blur revealed itself to be Toby- her cat of all things. The miserable ball of fur padded up to her head, sniffed once, then went on it's merry way. Had she not been dying at that precise moment she might have laughed at the cat's indifference, but the sad fact was that she was. She was dying. The brunette waited patiently for her life to flash before her eyes, or to see a light in the distance.

She waited and waited and waited. To be perfectly honest, Molly was getting more pissed by the minute. Dying was supposed to be beautiful and sad and dramatic, it wasn't supposed to take ages and she was sure as hell it wasn't supposed to happen by the neighboring block of flat's bins!

But then the pathologist's train of thought was thrown off again, and something occurred to her. As the pain returned and threatened to engulf her, Molly writhed in her own stupidity. She hadn't called out for help. She hadn't screamed or shouted or cried. At this though, she found the strength to first facepalm (which was impressive) sucked in as large a breath as she could manage, then-

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLPPPP! PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP MEEEE! ANYBODY PLEEEAAASSEE!"

The effort had caused the already heavy bleeding to worsen, and now she couldn't breath. She could taste the sharp tang of blood in her mouth, and knew the end was nigh. Until a girl's face popped into her vision. A young blonde girl, 15 or 16, wearing a crop top and skinny jeans in the snow, clutching a mobile phone and a purse.

"oh my god... are you okay? What- what do I do, oh my god what do I do? You're bleeding!" her soprano voice rang out.

Molly was fading fast, and she knew this was her last chance.

"Give-m-me the phone..." she got out. it took considerable effort to force her lips into the correct shape to form the words and that worried her.

She felt something hot drip onto her face, and knew the girl was crying. She tried to smile;

"It's okay" she managed, wondering why she was comforting the girl that wasn't dying. She felt the cold metal of an iphone press into her hand, and Molly's hands went on autopilot, phoning the first number she thought of. Anybody in their right mind would have phoned an ambulance, or at least the police, but she she was not in her right mind. She was in fact, in her last moments, and she was damn sure she was going to hear the voice she wanted most.

The phone rang for an age, but eventually a familiar voice spoke; "Yes molly?" Molly couldn't help but let out yet more tears now, knowing that this would be the last conversation she would ever have. "Sh-sh-Sherlock... m' dying Sherlock" She breathed down the line. She knew she sounded stupid, or drunk, but the dying girl simply didn't care. "Molly?" he questioned. Had he heard her right? Dying?

"I got mugged.. and I just- I just um..." She was loosing her train of thought, trying desperately to stay awake now. the young girl beside her hadn't a clue what to do, but held her free hand tightly- it was the only comfort she could offer.

"I loved you Sh-Sherlock... and I just wanted t-to say that... say bu-bye to John alright? Sherlock?" She could hear his frantic footsteps and breathing as he tore through 221B, trying to find John. "Molly, I'm on my way alright? I'll be ther soon, just hold on Molly! Alright, hold on!" He was shouting at her now,having located John. "M' at my flat... juss' take care of the girl Sherlock.. she's s-scared". With that Molly lost all consciousness, and promptly let her hand drop limply out to the side. In the process she smashed the girl's iphone, but she didn't notice. She was too busy howling with tears, shaking Molly as hard as she dared and screaming "What do I do?! Please oh my god What do I do? Somebody help her! Please!"

That was how Sherlock and John found her two minutes later (as Molly only lives 4 minutes away from Bakers Street).

Molly's lips were turning blue, and the girl was shaking violently. John Gently but firmly pulled the girl aside and addressed the pathologist;

"Molly? Molly, can you hear me? I need you to wake up for me love. It's John and Sherlock" He was putting as much pressure on her stomach as he could without hurting her further, but there was so many other wounds, and there was blood everywhere... John feared the worst.

"Sherlock, you need to put pressure on her leg! And talk to her, just talk to her, get her to wake up", the doctor said, trying desperately to save his friend. The consulting detective did as he was told.

"The ambulance is on it's way. Molly? MOLLY HOOPER YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!" Sherlock shouted in a stern voice, almost as if he were speaking to a petulant teenager, and not a dying woman. Surprisingly enough, her eyes moved and fluttered a bit, opening just far enough that she could see. She gave a tiny smile and said through cracked and bleeding lips; "I heard you Sherlock". Both men sighed in relief, and not ten seconds later sirens were heard in the distance. "You hear that Molly? You're going to be fine, the ambulance will be here any minute" John said, hope for Molly growing every second.

Sherlock had his large pale hands clamped onto her thigh, trying to staunch the bleeding, and was muttering to her about the case, trying to keep her awake, until she spoke again, what she feared would be her final words.

"It...was awfully g-good of you two to c-come..."

Then just as John spotted the ambulance careering round the corner about 400 yards away, Molly's eyes slipped shut and her heart stopped beating.

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><p><strong>So that was angsty and horrible haha. Please review and let me know if you want to leave it there, and imagine your own ending- does Molly live or die? What does Sherlock do? <strong>

**All that jazz. Or let me know if you want another chapter! Thanks for reading! **

**xxx**


	2. She can see me

The men both stared at Molly as she stopped breathing for all of 4 seconds, before the girl sat behind John choked out;  
>"i-is she...?" in a strangled voice. At that John started furiously pushing down on the tiny woman's chest, beating her heart for her, praying to gods he didn't believe in to just let her live. Sherlock still had his hands clamped down on her thigh, but his mind was miles away. He wore an expression not dissimilar to the one that graced his cheek bony face when John asked him to be his best man- completely and utterly uncomprehending. His vast and knowledgeable mind couldn't grasp what he was seeing; he couldn't understand how this had happened. How was Molly Hooper lying in the snow, in the middle of London, dying? How could there possibly be so much blood, in large pools about three meter's up the street, then in drips and globs as she walked, now in rivers flowing from her tiny body.<p>

He and John had seen her at 8 AM this morning about a body that hadn't come in yet, and then had left- Sherlock didn't even say goodbye. Somewhere in the back of his head he could hear John begging Molly to hang on, to say with him, the ambulance is right here, so wake up, and the strangled sobbing of a young girl, caught in the middle of some tragedy that she was never meant to see. As cliche as it sounds, it seemed like hours to Sherlock before the ambulance arrived. It stopped with a screech just beside them, it's flashing lights illuminating the area sickeningly. Doors were opened and slammed shut, there was running, and then Sherlock was shoved back next to the girl, deemed entirely useless. He watched with that same expression as they lifted Molly Hooper onto a gurney, and took over CPR from the army doctor. It took a few moments to load her onto the ambulance, and John used that time to address the girl; "Are you hurt at all love?" He asked quietly. She was shaking so hard, and was deathly pale, covered in the blood that stained the white ground around them. Sherlock looked at her, and knew that she looked exactly how he felt, so in an uncharacteristic move, put an arm around her in comfort. She leaned into his side, and cried harder. One of the paramedics leaned out the back of the ambulance and shouted "We can take one of you with us, the other two will have to follow behind". Without words, John instinctively took over hugging the girl, and Sherlock made his was into the back quickly.  
>Then it was all rushed voices and flashing lights, speeding towards a hospital. All Sherlock could do was watch Molly's pale face and grasp her tiny hand. He took solace in little things he noticed, like how her lips were a fraction less blue now, and if her eyes moved beneath their lids at all. These things were good. These things meant she was still alive. It didn't matter that she wasn't breathing by herself (they had some horrible blue bag held to her mouth to do that), or that her heart wasn't beating. He knew she was still alive.<p>

She wasn't allowed to give up on him now, she was the only capable pathologist in all of London, the only one he could trust to do things right. He told her as much, in the same stern voice he had used in the street, he told her that and so much more. He told her he was sorry for the Christmas party incident (years ago now) and that he was sorry he couldn't protect her better, and sorry that he was never enough. He told her how much he wanted to be enough for her. How he would be, if she would only hang on.

Soon they arrived, and she was ripped away from him, in a flurry of white coats. He ran with her as far as they would allow, squeezing her fragile hand as hard as he dared, begging for a sign, anything to let him know she would be okay. Just before they reached the threshold that the consulting detective couldn't cross, he saw it. Her eyes flicked open, and met with his, just for a second. But Sherlock knew it meant she would be okay, he _knew_ it. After all, he was never wrong, right?

exactly 8.37 minutes later, John appeared by his side, the young girl in tow. She appeared to have gone into shock, if her glazed over eyes and lack of response were anything to go by, and John muttered something to him about taking her to get some help. Sherlock located a vacant, hard plastic chair and waited. And waited and waited and waited. At some point John took up the chair next to his, the girl apparently being seen to else where.

"What do you think happened to her? She was beaten so badly..." The army doctor said, a lump coming up in his throat as he remembered her bruised face, and the blood, so much blood.

"John, what will I do without her? She's the only reason I'm alive, she's the only one who- who sees..." John's eyes widened at Sherlock's quiet question. Instead of asking when Molly became so important to him, he asked; "sees what mate?".

"Me, John. She sees me when no one else can. What will I be if no one can see me? I- I should have told her how much that means to me... what if she never knows John?" The man in question had no idea what to say. He had never seen the consulting detective look more like a lost little boy, or come this close to admitting he has feelings. John knew that Molly loved Sherlock, what he didn't know was that- in his own private way- Sherlock loved Molly too.

"You wont have to find out" John found himself saying, as he placed a hand on his best friend's shoulder, "She'll be okay. She's stronger than any of us give her credit for, and she's bloody well strong enough to get through this". Sherlock nodded along, knowing that what John was saying was true. Molly was strong. When she helped Sherlock 'die', she had to lie to everyone she knew, for two years and watch them grieve and suffer. She had kept Sherlock in her flat, and nursed his injuries when he came back beaten and bloody. He knew she felt immeasurable guilt for not being able to help John through those years, and she still hadn't forgiven herself (despite the fact that John had forgiven her years ago, and thanked her for keeping him alive). So Sherlock knew she was strong. He had to believe that she could overcome this too.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, a tired looking nurse came into the waiting room and informed them that she was alive. It was so close, and she had lost so much blood, but by some miracle she had survived. They got her warmed up, took her to surgery and put her back together again. There were stab wounds, broken ribs, a broken nose, cuts and bruises marred every inch of her body. But she was alive.<p>

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><p><strong>So Molly miraculously survived! What I think I'll do is make this a good round three-shot and wrap it up with some sherlolly goodness. Thank you for the wonderful response to this story! AliBird1, that wasn't your sleep deprived imagination sweetheart, that was my awful typing haha. (Fixed now). There was so much love for Molly! I love her too, I would never let her die. If you like this, please review and take a look at my other story The Detective and His Pathologist.<strong>

**Thanks again! xxxx**


	3. Hospital rooms

Because the hospital was St. Barts, because everyone knew Molly, but mostly because everyone could see how affected the great detective was, Sherlock and John were seated at Molly's bedside within moments of her being taken into recovery, instead of having to wait hours. The doctor who had seen little more than death and blood in a sandy place across the ocean let a few tears go at the sight of his friend lying so small and broken in a white bed. He knew she still never quite met his eyes when he spoke to her because she still hadn't forgiven herself for not telling him Sherlock was still alive, but at that moment all he wanted her to know was that none of that mattered. None of it. It was in the past, and she was still his friend. John respected Molly infinitely for being so patient and kind to everyone she met, even Sherlock. He had seen her many times take family members to identify dead bodies, and he had seen her cry with them and hold them. She was their strength when theirs deserted them. John could only pray that she could be her own strength now, and pull through this.

Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands. They had dry blood all over them, so he couldn't do what he wanted to most; hold Molly's hand. (He felt mildly better knowing that at least John was holding one of them). He couldn't get up to wash them. That would mean leaving her for a minute or two. He couldn't do that at the moment. His face was a mask- not of indifference (as per usual), but of concern. It didn't betray the torrent of rampant emotions whirling carelessly around his mind palace, but it did say something. He carefully looked over his pathologist. Her hair was matted with blood (no one had had the chance to wash it yet) with a few wisps falling down by her face. Both eyes had darkened and swelled horribly- no doubt a result of the broken nose. Her nose was bruised and had a small plaster over the bridge of it. Her lips were split and chapped from the cold,and there was still blood in the corner of it (Sherlock chose not to think about how that blood was the result of the internal bleeding that had almost killed her). A dark dusting of purple and blue wrapped itself around her chin and caressed her jaw bone on the left hand side. The only other things that Sherlock could see were her arms, where clear and precise hand and boot prints could be seen. There were a few slits in the pale flesh of her forearms and biceps- the mugger had incorrectly assumed that the blood loss and cold would get to her before anyone else could.

The _mugger._ At that thought- laced with acid and murderous intentions- Sherlock stood abruptly, and made his way over to a young nurse, leaving a confused John to keep watch over Molly. "excuse me-" He leaned closer to her, peering at her name tag "-Bethany? When can we expect Dr. Hooper to wake up from the anesthesia?" He asked quietly. From the bags under her blue eyes, Sherlock could deduce that it had been a long shift for her, and the way she kept flicking her gaze to Molly suggested she knew her.

"It'll be a few hours yet. She's been dosed with a good amount of morphine as well, so when she does get round to us she'll be out of it. Molly's such a sweetheart, she always works the graveyard shift if anyone needs it off, and she's so patient with everybody... It's such a shame, you know?"

With this Sherlock gave a small nod, uttered; "I know" and stalked out the door, sheer determination the only thing prying him away from the broken pathologist in the hospital bed.

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><p><strong>So Molly's okay! I'm not sure what happened when I tried to upload it earlier, only about half of it came up! any way, just a short one today, will be finished in the next chapter.<strong>

**Thanks for reading, drop a review and let me know what you think!**

**xxxx**


	4. 3 weeks and 6 days later

43 minutes later, Sherlock and Mycroft were standing in one of the elder Holmes' dark and damp warehouses, with a young pale boy on his knees before them. On route to the leader of the homeless network (that he had used to apprehend the boy so quickly) Sherlock had phoned his brother, both as a persuasion so he wouldn't be arrested for his actions, and to update him on Molly's condition. During the years that followed 'The Fall' Mycroft and Molly had crafted a strange kind of relationship. Sherlock stayed in her flat, creating the perfect bolthole for himself in the calm, and the lemon scented air, but often taking down a criminal mastermind's minions meant leaving that safe haven. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for weeks. The longest period of absence had been 2 months and one week. It had been hell for her, not knowing if her detective was alive or not, and not knowing if he would return. Mycroft recognized this, and in his own way; could relate.

The Holmes brothers did not love each other obviously. They loved each other through government protection, and favors for Her Majesty. Sherlock loved his brother through sly little insults and tales of his diet cheating to Mummy Holmes. They were family. And so despite his global powers of protection, security and surveillance, there were moments when he could not see Sherlock, or say for sure that his heat beat on. These were the moments he found himself on Molly Hooper's couch, watching meaningless TV and eating cake with the only other person in the world who understood.

Mycroft eventually came to realize that Molly Hooper was no mere GoldFish. She was intelligent woman (even if she couldn't see a divorce was imminent when a man was wearing spots instead of stripes on his tie), and one with powerful persuasion skills. He would never admit it to anybody, even under duress he would take with him to his grave that the small woman had made him watch 'Bambi'.

And so Mycroft Holmes would use every resource he had in his repertoire, every inch of power at his disposal to ensure her safety. And he would make _damn_ sure that this _scum_ payed for ever even placing his eyes upon her. He was certainly not a man to mess with, and that was exactly Sherlock's thought process when he phoned him. So there there were. The boy had his hands tied tightly behind his back with thick, rough rope. His nose was bleeding, his lip was split, and there was no way out of this predicament; he was surrounded by Two tall, well dressed men, and 10 decidedly more dangerous men braced in tactical assault gear and armed to the teeth. He swallowed thickly.

4 hours later a body was found in a back ally somewhere in London. The body of a young male, wanted for many petty crimes. He was holding onto his life by a thread, with a bullet hole blasted through both knee caps, a broken- well, a broken everything, two fingers missing as well as several teeth and a severe stab wound _just to the right of his stomach_. But unfortunately his case one was never solved, paperwork lost in the system and such. As far as anyone was aware he spent the rest of his days in prison, unable to tell his tale of woe without a tongue.

Sherlock and Mycroft arrived back at Molly's bedside just over 2 hours after Sherlock had left, there having been no change since his departure (other than the fact that Sherlock's mind was much clearer and at ease). John would later question what happened to the young arse wipe, and Sherlock would answer honestly. John would nod, and they'd never speak of it again. Eventually Molly would ask too, but Sherlock had quite a different tale to tell her; something about a small fight before he was apprehended and taken to prison for life. But the great detective had many other things to tell Molly before that would come up.

Like how he loved her. Not like he loved Mycroft, not even like how he loved John. He loved her in a way that one could only love Molly Hooper. She had never given up on him, had loved him through his lowest (and meanest) moments, and through the soaring highs- when he had quite forgotten about her. Now it was his turn to do the same. Molly was broken here, in this disgustingly white hospital bed, and Sherlock planned to put her back together in time for their wedding.

He predicted this would take about a month, if that.

'Damn you Sherlock Holmes', was all John could say as Sherlock and Molly sped off for their honey moon in Paris 3 weeks and six days later.

**And that's a rap! Originally I was going to have Molly wake up and do a big dramatic thing where Sherlock gushed out his feelings and kissed her, and all that, but as I was writing it I thought it was a bit cliche, and even a bit out of character for him. So I decided to give him a cocky ending, one that I hope was a wee bit more original.**

**I really hope you enjoyed this story (despite how long it took me to finish it) and that you'll review and tell me what you think. If you liked this then please check out my other Sherlolly story: The Detective and His Pathologist, and give that a review too!**

**Thank you to everyone that followed this story, to anyone that reviewed it, to anyone who read and and most imortantly to anyone who ****_enjoyed_**** it.**

**With all my love and wishes for good fanfics,**

**Beansprout1997 xxxx **


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